Castle Fanfic: Exotic Dances For the Reluctant Beginner
by CharacterDriven
Summary: For Castle Hiatus Ficathon 2015. Rick has to attend a charity fundraiser. He talks Kate into accompanying him, while she attempts to conceal her winter blues. AU, set early S2. This was originally written as an M but I'm taking it to a T rating to comply with this website's guidelines. Also because I'm a puling coward. :-D
1. Chapter 1

I wrote this story a while ago; if you are a writing buddy, you may have already read it in email form. I've changed it around a little. It gets a bit steamy, therefore is rated M.

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Prompt:  
Jealous Beckett, old flame who's her equal intellectually and physically. AU.

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 **Exotic Dances for the Reluctant Beginner  
**

 **November 16, 2010, 12th Precinct**

This being mid-November, Kate was slipping her heavy blue overcoat on, and her mood was as gray as the weather. Adding to her irritation, Castle was begging. For her. To do something... fun.

"Oh, come on, Beckett, this will be..."

"If it's so much fun already, why do you want me to come?"

"Because my mother's got a cold, Alexis has a biology midterm, and I don't want to have to beat a bunch of overheated fangirls off with a stick."

Beckett arched an eyebrow at him. "If this is what your Tuesday evenings are like, I suppose your Fridays are an outright nightmare."

Castle's face flamed. "Perhaps that wasn't the best wording, but... please?"

"I don't have anything to wear."

"Last time you said that you wound up wearing red." He smiled at the memory. Now it was Kate's turn to blush. "Just wear a nice LBD. Something you can dance in. You'll be fine."

"Little blue dashiki?"

"Little black... wait, so, you're actually coming?"

"Okay, Castle. You've been following me around for, what, two years now?"

Castle pouted. "It's only been since March 2009, off and on." _Stupidest_ summer ever.

"Somehow feels like longer. If the press is going to be throwing my photo up on Page 6, I might as well give them something to look at other than, "Cop wears nothing but blue latex gloves and Burberry."

Castle tilted his head. "Nothing?"

"In your nightmares."

He smirked. "I don't know about that..."

They rode down in the elevator. He said, "Want to share a cab?"

She shook her head. "I need to pick something up on the way."

Like an emergency mani-pedi, a new lipstick, and a big, thick slice of courage. Her hands were already sweating.

•

* * *

 **Beckett's Apartment, 7 p.m**

Castle was on time, as usual, and she was running slightly late. She'd let her hair grow out in layers over the summer, and was struggling with the last little wisps of her chignon. She hurried to the door, still in her stocking feet, to find him looking way too relaxed in a three-piece suit. "I'm sorry, I just..."

He looked down at her, charmed at how she went from sexy-intimidating to adorable-sexy with such a minor adjustment as going barefoot and wearing a lavender terry bathrobe.

He said, "No worries, we don't even have to be there till 7:45." She stood there hesitating, wondering whether she should let him in. He looked down at his feet: polished Italian shoes. Then he looked down at hers. She hadn't put stockings on yet. Her toenails had been painted fire-engine red; her fingernails didn't match them, but were rather a subtle, iridescent shell pink. He thought, _"Your fingernails say you are all lady. Your toes tell another story."_ He said, "Just close the door and I'll stand out here like an idiot, waiting."

"Oh! God. Come on in." She scurried back to the bathroom, gesturing at the kitchen. "You know where the wine is? Sorry, I didn't have time to let it breathe..."

Apparently, she was a little out of breath herself. He smirked. "I don't know, should I get started before we even get there?"

She shot him such a look of panic that he said, " _Pinot grigio_ it is, then." He didn't even wait for her to say yes.

"So who's the benefit for?" she called out. She was putting in pearl drop earrings.

"Dance Folklyrico. It's an ensemble troupe that teaches under-served kids."

Beckett smiled out of the bathroom at him, her hair still askew, then ducked her head back inside. "Folk dance? Really?"

"Teaches appreciation for melody, coordination, plus every dance offers opportunity for hand holding and other nonviolent social interaction." He thought, _"You could use a few sessions yourself."_ He said, "May I approach?" and held up a half-filled glass of wine.

Beckett called out "All right, just behave yourself."

"Always," he said. He knocked on the door frame, just in case, and handed her the half-glass of wine he'd poured. "Wouldn't do to show up tipsy at such an event."

She said, "Good point. Thanks. So much better than half-empty." She took a sip and smiled appreciatively.

"I really appreciate this, Beckett."

She nodded into the mirror. "Sure." _Still_ fixing her hair. She frowned, taking out the pins. "Maybe I should just wear it down."

"If you want it up, I'm something of an expert with this. Hair."

She rolled her eyes. "Really."

"Well, for one thing, I was dragged along with Mother's summer stock troupes a few times as a kid. Had to pitch in on everything from sweeping the stage, costume changes, touch-up paint, to hairdressing... Also I think Alexis went to at least thirty Princess Mermaid Pony birthday parties over the course of her childhood. So there were updos."

"Epic, I take it?"

"One had butterflies. May I?"

"All right." She took a sip of her wine. "No butterflies." She had enough of those in her stomach. She didn't know they were planning to do a duet with the butterflies in his stomach.

He turned her toward the mirror and cracked his voice into a Fairy Godmother trill. "Now, sit on your little vanity chair and close your eyes."

She was immediately suspicious. "Why?"

"Never trust anyone who tells you to trust them. But it's more fun to be surprised than to stand there criticizing every little move I make, right? And if you hate it, you can just take out the pins and wear it down. It's a no-lose proposition."

She sipped a little more wine and sat down. "Good point. Just watch where you put your hands if you want to keep them."

"Agreed." He took her last hairpins out and set them aside, then brushed her hair. She rarely went to the salon, and only for coloring, although she'd gotten a lot of head-shakes and grimaces from exasperated hairdressers. (Ok: truth be told? Kate Beckett cut her own hair more often than not. All she needed was two mirrors, a comb, and a good pair of barber shears, and it beat constantly having to make and break appointments. Last time she'd gotten a little overzealous with the layering.) Nobody else had _brushed_ her hair in years. Castle steadied her temple gently with his left hand, and ran the brush through in long, loving, sweeping strokes. It felt sensual, decadent. She sighed, feeling the wine course through her veins, feeling the warmth of his body, not touching but just behind her. She wondered how it would feel to have that hand glide down her neck, down her shoulder...

But he took his hand away, using both to tease her hair very slightly at the top. She said ruefully, "Every time I try to rat my hair, it just ends up looking... ratted."

"It's something of an art form," he agreed. He made a twist at the nape of her neck, then folded it up vertically under a pocket of looser hair, doubled it and pinned it in place as he went, topping it with a smooth little coil. "Hair spray?"

"Haven't used it in years."

"Do you have any?"

"It's under the sink." Stealing a peek at her hair in the mirror, she bent over, her bottom bumping him slightly. He fought the urge to bump it right back, with a good deal more gusto. She caught his startled look and crouched down.

"Oops. Sorry," they both said. He stepped back, she rummaged and produced a can of cheap hair spray that sported a little bit of rust on the bottom rim.

"'Industrial Strength Agua-Nette'? I love this stuff," he chuckled. He gave her a light misting, smoothing the stray hairs. "And if you get hit by a car, it decreases your chance of concussion by 20 percent."

"Really?"

"Absolutely, it's right here on the label." He pointed at the fine print.

Faking naïve curiosity, she turned to look, and pretended to read. "You're right. ' _Helmet hair guaranteed'._ Now I feel safe."

He laughed. She elbowed him gently then stared at the mirror. He held up the hand mirror and spun her to look at the back. "See?"

"I look like my mother," she said quietly.

He looked at her for a long, serious moment. "No doubt she'd be proud to hear you say that," he replied, and held up his glass, a quiet toast, a small sip. She did the same, then gestured down at herself. "I need to dress."

"I'll just wait..." he said. "Out there."

"Yes. You will."

She closed the door, dressed quickly, put on her strappy black stilettos, and stepped out. The dress was navy blue, slinky, with a deep sweetheart neckline and long sleeves. There was enough wire in her merry widow corset/bra to carry power to the entirety of Manhattan, and it was uncomfortable but probably worth the pain, judging by the expression of mixed pride and longing on his face when she emerged.

She looked at the mirror again. "I feel like it needs something."

He thought, _"I feel like it needs to be torn off your body and discarded on the way to your couch. No, maybe the dining table."_ He didn't say that out loud. He murmured, "It's perfect."

"No," she frowned. She went to her jewelry box and produced a pearl necklace. "Here. Very Jackie O, but the clasp is sort of impossible."

"Pearl necklace," his brain conjured up an image too obscene to mention, and he said, "Let me help you with that." He could tell from her innocent expression that this slang was a phrase with which she was not familiar, and oh God. Did he want to explain it to her in juicy detail? Yes he did.

He poured himself just a little more wine. She came to him, held out the necklace, turned her back to him. He placed it carefully around her neck, enjoying its weight as it settled and draped against her collar bones. The clasp was gold, and tiny, and he had to lean in closely to fasten it with fingers that felt too thick and clumsy. She felt his breath warm on the back of her neck, and it was all she could do to keep from turning, kissing him, making him late for his stupid benefit or make him miss it altogether. She could tell from his expression that he had a thing for pearls. She wondered if he actually just had a thing for her, but she knew how it was with Castle and women.

•

 **Terpsichorean Theater, Just off Broadway, 7:45 p.m.**

The Dance Folklyrico benefit was actually quite lovely. It was more low-key than a red carpet, held at the Terpsichorian, a restored art deco theatre just two blocks from Broadway. They stood around in the lobby eating tapas and drinking sparkling Cava, schmoozing with other donors and guests.

Castle told her quietly, "Go for the stuffed mushrooms. The bruschetta's basically salsa on toast."

Kate nodded and whispered, "Good to know."

Castle was working the crowd with Kate at his side, talking up the benefits of social interaction, the scholarships for promising dancers, the sister programs with local youth orchestras and chamber groups, the letters of recommendation and the need for deeper pockets to support the students and their art. Beckett watched, seeing a side she hadn't noticed at the last benefit they'd attended. That night, she'd been too busy looking for a murderer. She hadn't been looking closely at _Richard Castle, Author_ : this cultured gentleman, truly in his element. She felt suddenly intimidated. How could she ever fit into a world like this? Seized with awkwardness, she hung back on the sidelines, examining the Terpsichorian's collection of vintage live-theatre posters. One featured the great theatrical diva, Cecilia Jeffries, starring in Sweet Charity. Looking closer at the lobby cards, Kate noticed a young Martha Rodgers in a supporting role. The poster was from 1968, years before Kate was born.

A tall, elegant woman, maybe in her seventies, noticed Kate absorbed in the posters. She looked Kate up and down. "Perhaps you are a dancer?" she smiled.

Kate shook her head. "No, I took a few years' ballet as a girl, but I turned out to be more of a tomboy. I still do Pilates, though."

The lady inclined her head. "Keep at it, Darling. It suits you." A young man in a tux approached her and said. "Dame Cecilia, it's time to head to our seats."

Dame Cecilia nodded, then smiled at Kate. "If you'll excuse us. I don't move as nimbly as I used to." She took her escort's arm and leaned gracefully on him as he walked her slowly into the auditorium.

After the hors d'oeuvres, they went in to the main auditorium for the performances. Beckett noticed Dame Cecilia, seated in the handicapped section, surrounded by admirers hoping for autographs, which she signed with a radiant smile.

Beckett smirked and nudged Castle, murmuring, " _She's_ not signing anybody's boobs."

"She used to sign things a bit lower down," he winked. Kate's eyes went wide, scandalized.

He whispered, "My mom knew her back in the 60s before they both moved up out of the chorus. She was quite the party animal."

"You're no gentleman," Kate tried to hide a smile with a scowl. "Gossiping like that."

Castle grinned. "It's not gossip. You should read her memoirs. Dame Cecilia's no _lady_ , in the classic definition of the term." He paused. "On the other hand, she's a truly great human being."

Since he was a principal donor, Castle had to go backstage for a bit before the performance. He said, "I'll meet you at our seats, so keep it warm for me?"

Beckett's eyes shifted. "I'll just set it on fire so you can find me in the dark," she smirked.

He looked just slightly scandalized, and leaned in to whisper in her ear, "Not in a crowded theater, Beckett." The usher guided Beckett to the front row, next to the house-right center aisle seat. While the orchestra tuned up, she looked through the program: ten different dance troupes, eleven different styles of dance from traditional ethnic to ballet and hip-hop. The finale was to be a tango, featuring professional dancers who had graduated college through scholarships offered by the organization.

The orchestra was made of up middle-schoolers up through college students, all dressed in black and white, their serious faces deep in concentration. Kate braced herself for an evening of cacaphonic misery, but was pleasantly surprised by the skilled players, who seemed to magically pull themselves together when Dame Cecelia and her escort walked onto the stage. She bowed to applause, and spoke into the microphone.

"Good evening, everyone, and thank you so much for coming out to support Dance Folklyrica. We serve thousands of children throughout the New York State public school system, after-school programs, and even home-schoolers. We bring dance to the children, and children to the dance. Tonight's eclectic range of performances will showcase dances from all over the world, performed both by beginners and, as a special treat, a consummate professional tango choreographer. We hope that, afterwards, you will stay and join in your choice of simple dance lessons. Thank you so much for supporting the scholarships for Dance Folklyrica. We know that this show is a shameless ploy to invite you to give even more." The audience chuckled, and she gave a broad wink. "We trust you will find yourself inspired to do so. And now, Ladies and gentlemen, Boys and Girls, and every possible variation thereof, please welcome: the Queens After School KinderCare program, taught by Ms. Jennifer Hollis, performing 'El Colas'."

Dame Cecilia and her escort left the stage as a gaggle of kindergarteners in bright clothing came bouncing in, boys in pristine white and girls in bright, full-skirted, flower-like dresses. After settling into formation, the orchestra started up, and the children performed an interwoven dance from Mexico, holding hands, twirling, stomping their tiny feet. It wasn't the cutest thing Kate had ever seen, but she had seen Alexis Castle holding a kitten at some point, so it was tough competition. This was followed by a troupe of tween girls, doing an Irish jig and reel, their curly wigs bouncing, embroidered dresses sparkling, smiles coached to perfection and frozen on their glitter-glossed lips.

Castle returned to sit with Kate then, guided in by an usher during applause. He tested the seat carefully with his hand. "Not too cold," he whispered.

She grinned over at him. "There was a fangirl. I beat her off with a stick."

"Thanks." He sat and applauded with the rest of the audience as a troupe of middle school girls in kimonos came onstage. They performed a dance with the Japanese fan, snapping them, flirting with them, posing and bowing. Then came some high-school-age boys, Morris dancing, banging the flat blades of blunted swords, then interweaving them into a star. As the performances continued, they became more and more sophisticated, more and more rousing, with each troupe introduced and allowed their bows. For the last dance performance, the stage went dark a moment, and the announcer's voice came up over the PA: "Due to injury, graduate Amy Wrighton is unable to perform tonight. The finale will be performed by graduate Alvin Summers, dancing with a special surprise guest. Please give a warm welcome to virtuosa Selma Cortez."

The lights came up slowly, spotlit in cold blue and purple, to reveal a woman standing alone.

Kate heard Castle let out an odd little sigh of anxiety, but it was too dark to make out his expression. She turned her attention to the stage. Selma Cortez was of medium height, exquisitely beautiful, supple and curvy. Spirals of her curly black hair escaping a loose bun. She wore a draped, white-gold 1930s-style dress, in layers of bias-cut, translucent silk chiffon that set off her olive skin, and her T-strapped shoes sparkled with rhinestones. At the stage's edge, an accordion started up softly, was joined by a piano, upright bass and a drum. Cortez moved with feline grace, acting out a grief and loneliness that somehow brought a lump to Kate's throat. A young, slim man appeared out of the shadows, in a loose white shirt and high-waisted tight pants. The light grew warmer, in hues of red and gold, as he circled around her, first tentatively and then with greater boldness, and their dance became a tango, the dancers moving back and forth, pressing close then pulling away, her leg wrapped around his hip as he dragged her across the floor.

Kate watched, rapt. It was incredibly sexy, probably too sexy for this mixed-age audience. Selma Cortez wasn't wearing much in the way of a bra, and with her back to him, Alvin's long hands slid along the silk of her bodice, actually over her breasts, leaving her already-erect nipples obviously hard; her red lips formed an O then widened into a joyful, lascivious smile. She whipped around to face him, he dragged her back, and the two dancers pressed together in a near-kiss. Kate crossed one of her legs over the other, leaning forward slightly in her chair, lips slightly parted. She felt the pressure of her silk panties against her sex, and breath caught in her throat. Castle watched her sidelong, the golden light caressing her exquisite face, her eyes dark beneath thick lashes. Her back arched slightly. He wondered what would happen if he were to take her hand, or put his own on the small of her back, but he restrained himself.

If Castle were the kind of man who talked at the theater, he would probably have said the wrong thing at that moment, something like _"So is this what gets you hot, Beckett?"_ But he knew better, shut up, and just watched Kate sidelong as Alvin laid Selma back in his arms, worshiping her lithe form, their motions alternately sharp and savage, then languorous, then building to an almost orgasmic surge of motion. Kate felt an insistent throb between her legs, as intense as if she'd been watching a love scene, or reading one in a book. The pas de deux went on just a little longer, then a chorus of other dancers joined them on the stage, the ensemble clearly choreographed where only a moment before, the dancing couple had seemed so very intimate, so spontaneous. Kate sat back, a little relieved, and the tingling at her core abated. The ensemble finished the dance, with the starring couple at center, and there was a thunder of applause. The entire audience stood and clapped for about five minutes as each troupe bounded or bounced or sashayed onstage, loudest of all for the tiniest child dancers, and finally for the orchestra.

Dame Cecilia returned to stage right. "Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for your support and for joining us tonight. We'd like you all to take this opportunity to try some delicious desserts donated by Evelyn Rose Patisserie, join us for coffee or hot chocolate, and meet the dancers and musicians whose hard work and dedication have made this program so successful. And, if you care to, join us for an impromptu dance lesson – we'll have short sessions starting in ten minutes..."

Castle arose and offered Kate his arm. "I got to be on the dessert selection committee. You really do need to try the rosepetal-pomegranate cheesecake."

"Sounds great," Kate said. She felt oddly vulnerable, too visible. The evening was coming to an end, and this was feeling more like a date than she had anticipated or agreed to. She arose, but didn't take his arm. "I think I can make it up the aisle on my own."

"I'm sure you can," he said, but she saw a flash of hurt in his eyes.

She hesitated, realizing she was probably making too much of it. "On the other hand, you can probably use a bodyguard." She let him take her elbow then, and he cupped his hand around it, his thumb just grazing the sensitive skin on the inside. She felt that touch through the silky knit of her dress and throughout her nervous system, and it set her on fire. Then she looked up and saw a lush red kiss print on his left cheek.

"Really, Castle?"

"What?"

"Looks like you ran a gauntlet through the Bloomingdale's cosmetics counter." She sniffed. "Plus, you smell like Poisson du Mer."

He touched his face, baffled, then panic and embarrassment did a tango across his face. His eyes closed, exasperated. "You mean Sîren du Mer? That was Selma. I meant to tell you..."

"Oh, you know her?"

He hesitated. "I knew her."

Kate said, "Knew her as in..."

The open expression of his face shut down a little, and he ran a hand through his hair. "Yeah. Like that," Castle said. "She was lead dancer in Evita. Mother had a part, I was working summer stock as a grip. Then her partner had to bow out."

"Isn't it something of a leap to put you onstage?"

"I was tall and fit the tuxedo. Believe me, I wasn't much of a dancer before that, but her partner... well, I heard he pulled a groin muscle."

"Whose?"

Castle blushed. "Katherine Beckett! I... look, okay, you're absolutely right. She, uh, gave me dancing lessons."

Seeing Beckett's look, he added quietly, "Perhaps some of those lessons were more horizontal than vertical. But it was intensive. We spent a lot of time together."

"I bet you did." They came out into the brightly lit lobby, now crowded not only with guests and patrons, but proud dancers, still sweaty, excited to meet their audience and, in most cases, eat cookies.

"We became pretty good friends. I did all right on stage, we finished out the tour, moved on to other things, and we've barely seen one another since. Sherry?" Castle grabbed two tiny glasses of golden cordial off a tray. Kate shook her head no. "It's dry. You'll like it."

Kate took the glass, glowering, but didn't drink. Castle grabbed a dessert plate. "There's a lot of really good stuff here, do you mind sharing?"

"I'd really rather not..." Kate didn't want to finish the sentence. _"I'd rather not touch anything that goes near those extremely busy lips of yours."_

"Oh, come on, Beckett," He said something quietly to the waiter, and the waiter nodded, disappearing into a side room. "Live a little."

Castle grabbed a dessert fork and placed three treats on his plate: a little triangle of pinkish cheesecake, a yellow petite four garnished with lemon zest, and a bite-sized cup of crème brulee in a chocolate shell. "These are so good, the top shatters like ice and turns to caramel in your mouth."

Kate thought about what it would be like to have _him_ shatter like ice and turn to caramel in her mouth. That sounded much too attractive, and she was much too angry. She glared at that crème brulee the way a nun stares at a go-go dancer: disapproval for an invitation to stray from the path of righteous indignation.

Castle was still trying to get her to lighten up. "Ever played with a kitchen blowtorch, Kate? Fastest s'mores ever..."

Kate said sourly, "You have quite a full plate, there."

Rick withheld an exasperated sigh. "Look, I'm obligated to stay here a little while longer, but if you want to go early, I can call you a town car."

Kate was about to say _yes_ when a woman's voice, soft-rough as suede and accented, called out "Oh, Ricardo, there you are!"

Selma had changed out of her dance clothes and removed the thick theatrical makeup, but was still somewhat under-dressed in her sparkly T-strap dance shoes, a floaty transparent lace top, fitted black camisole, and metallic purple leggings. She was even more beautiful up close, although Beckett was surprised to realize the dancer was older than Rick by over a decade. In her coils of hair, long, un-dyed silver threads snaked amongst the ebony. Speaking of snakes, Selma ran to Castle gracefully, her breasts bouncing, grasped his face between her hands, and gave him a fervent kiss on each cheek. He hugged her back, still balancing the plate and fork but trying not to upset the desserts, and Kate did a save of the utensils. He didn't give Selma a lift-up-and-twirl sort of hug, which Kate found somewhat gratifying. Castle patted Selma's sculpted shoulder. "Finally a proper hello."

Kate downed her glass of sherry.

Castle said, "Selma, I'm so sorry I didn't get time to talk with you backstage... I didn't know you'd..."

Selma's accent was adorable – maybe Portuguese, maybe Spanish. "It's ok, Sweetie, I just blew into town. I was gonna see the show, then it turn out poor Amy sprain her ankle during rehearsal today." She looked genuinely regretful, shook her head, then she and Rick said it simultaneously, sing-songing: "That what happen when we don' warm uu-up." They both laughed gently.

Beckett would have thought it cute if she hadn't already wanted to rip Selma's head off. She thought, _"What in hell is wrong with me?"_ She forced a smile that, from the corner of his eye, struck Rick more as the baring of wolf's teeth.

He stepped from Selma and gestured toward Kate. "Kate Beckett, this is Selma Cortez. Selma, this is Kate Beckett, my partner."

He said it so easily. Kate reached out a hand, a smile frozen on her face. "Work partner. We work together. As partners." She grabbed Rick's glass of sherry, toasted him sardonically, and downed that as well.

Selma looked Kate up and down, appraising as Cecilia had done. "Rick, you're still dancing? Or is this your editor..." she stopped. "Oh, no, that was Geneva."

"Gina. No, Kate is an officer with the local police. She's the best detective on the planet."  
Kate's expression brightened a bit, even though he was flattering her shamelessly.

Selma looked politely intrigued. "Always something new with you, Ricardo," she grinned. Kate came to understand that calling him Ricardo was something of a joke. Selma said to Kate, "You ever dance with this big lug?"

Kate shook her head. "Only for work purposes."

At Selma's confused glance, Kate added, "Sometimes we go under cover. Pretend to be..." she found herself lost for words.

"Pretend to be lovers?" Selma arched an eyebrow. Her grin at Rick was plain to read: _"You are losing your touch, Ricardo."_

Rick smiled wanly. "Kate's a wonderful dancer."

"Nothing like you, of course," Kate added hastily, to Selma.

Selma shrugged. "If I could do anyt'ing else better, I would. My mama use to say I'm born in dancing shoes. Sometimes I wonder, maybe I could be great chef. Maybe rocket scientist. When I retire." She stopped a passing tray ("Essacuse me, darling" to the waiter, with a gorgeous smile) and grabbed a crème brulee, popped it into her mouth, and her eyes rolling back, she made an absolutely sinful groan. "MmmmMMMMMm ohhh, my God, if I could eat nothing but that the rest of my life..." Weirdly, Kate wondered what kind of noise Selma made in bed, and judging by Rick's blush, he already knew. Selma licked her finger and gave them both a wicked smile. "You two want to join dance lessons?"

Kate had just popped Rick's crème brulee into her own mouth, and was rolling the heavenly caramel, custard and chocolate around on her tongue. It was an awkward time to answer. Rick said, "Sure! Five minutes."

"Hokey-dokey," said Selma. "I see you two in the ballroom." Kate tried to pull back. Rick grabbed the fork and took a bite of the cheesecake. "This is amazing. You should try new things, Beckett. In the Castle household we have a one-bite rule."

"I'm not a member of the Castle household."

"You are tonight," he smiled. He looked beyond her to someone standing behind, in a little alcove, a shrine to theater mavens of the past. Alexis and Martha were there, and if Martha had a cold, there was no sign of it. Alexis was holding a tiny chocolate cake about the size of a hockey puck, exquisitely decorated, with a single candle sticking out. The candle was white, and when Martha lit the wick, its tiny flame brought tears to Kate's eyes.

Martha said quietly, "Happy birthday, Katherine."

•••


	2. Chapter 2: Push and Pull

_Wow. Thanks to everyone for their enthusiasm! This is probably the most mainstream, romantic story I've written. For the guest who asked to read the M version, sorry. Since I have no verification that folks reading this are over 18, I do that by email only, arranged by DM. Anyone who's interested in reading the heavy-duty version... please introduce yourself. Thanks!_

And just like any other writer, I deeply appreciate favorites, follows, and reviews, especially if they contain constructive criticism or offers of chocolate and flowers.  
-CharacterDriven

* * *

 **Exotic Dances for Reluctant Beginners  
Chapter 2**

Alexis said, "Surprise!" and rose up on her toes a little bit in excitement. The tiny flame wavered.

Kate briefly glanced at Rick, blinking back tears that might have been angry, might just have been a little overwhelmed.

He looked as if he wondered whether she was wearing a concealed weapon. If he'd tried to pull something like this at the precinct, it would have gone badly. He'd been smart to invite his mom and daughter. From Beckett's calculating look, she already knew she'd been manipulated – that it would be one thing to yell at him on his own, quite another when she was outnumbered by the Blue-Eyed Horde Of Almost Unnatural Cheer. He was about to apologize when her expression softened.

Castle had one hand on Kate's shoulder, one on Alexis'. "Mother, let's keep it quiet."

"If you insist." She set the key, singing very softly, and her son and granddaughter followed. _"Happy birthday to you..."_

Kate blew out her candle. The few people around who had noticed applauded softly from a polite distance. She looked around, smiling shyly, blinking back more tears. "This is so... thank you."

He said, "Make a wish."

Kate made a silent plea: _"I wish I could sink into this carpet and never be heard from again."_ She pressed fingers over her lips, trying to hold back the upwelling emotion.

Since her mother's murder, the five-to-twelve-days between Kate's birthday and the movable Thanksgiving holiday were always excruciating and lonely. How fiercely she missed the baking and planning, phone calls and friendly bickering, visiting with friends from high school who'd come back in town from college... all of it just too much, too many memories, nowhere to go with them. And she had let Castle take her out on the night before her birthday, thinking he didn't know. She thought, _"Of course he knows. I'm such an idiot."_

 _S_ he murmured, "How did you know?"

Alexis was beaming. "Daddy asked Dr. Parish back in September." That wasn't exactly true. Lanie had dropped a hint about it when Kate wasn't paying attention, then Castle had bribed her with tickets to the ballet.

Martha said, "Don't hold it against Dr. Parish. You know Richard when he has his mind set on something."

Kate raised her eyebrows a little. "Understatement."

Castle said, "I'll be right back." He returned with a tray, which he set on the side table: four little plates, four tumblers, four forks, and a pitcher with enough milk for four people. He said, "Got milk?" and Kate laughed. They'd discussed the chocolate-cake-without-milk problem before. One of the few things they could agree on.

Castle raised a toast with his tumbler of milk. "To Kate Beckett, who is learning to follow the One Bite Rule."

Martha joined in, "May every bite you take be sweet."

Alexis added, "Unless it's artichokes." They all chuckled. There was enough cake for about two bites each, which was just about perfect.

When they finished, they put everything back on the tray and Alexis handed it off to the caterers, who were beginning to clean up. Castle led Kate to the ballroom. This wasn't tango! It was a huge spiral dance, everyone grape-vining, from the eldest adults to the smallest children. Dame Cecilia was sitting on the sidelines by the little orchestra, clapping her elegant hands in time to the Klezmer music. Selma bounced up to Castle and Beckett, preceded by her cleavage, and took Kate's hand. "Join in. It's good luck!"

Castle took Kate's other hand and urged her along. "It's a pretty simple grapevine."

Kate didn't even have to watch her feet, and it actually felt nice to dance with the group. "I've been to a bat mitzvah or ten," she chuckled. They danced along for the rest of the song, just holding hands, grinning from ear to ear. At one point they passed Martha and Alexis dancing together hand in hand. Martha gave Kate a big smile, but there was obviously no love lost between Selma and Martha. The two older women exchanged an icy glare and continued on in opposite directions. Kate didn't have to wonder why. Castle spoke across to his daughter as she flitted by. "I told you learning this step would come in handy someday."

Alexis laughed and rolled her eyes. "Self fulfilling prophecy, Dad."

A moment later, when Alexis and Martha had receded in the opposite direction, Castle glanced down at Beckett's silver stiletto shoes. "Your feet must be killing you."

"They will in the morning," Kate laughed. "These aren't exactly made for dancing."

He waggled his eyebrows and she could practically hear him thinking _"Then what are they made for?"_ But he had the sense to keep it simple: "They're very pretty."

Very pretty? _Jeez_. Some writer.

When the song ended, the crowd stood around applauding and catching respective breath in the warm room, and Dame Cecilia announced, "Everyone split off into smaller groups." She waved arms off into the four corners of the immense Beaux Arts ballroom. "Selma will lead a tango lesson, Jean-Serge will lead the Rhumba, Jane will lead Morris dance, and Niamh will be taking you through the Virginia Reel."

Kate watched the crowd divide up into four smaller groups, although a number of folks – particularly the younger kids - were already leaving, calling out goodbyes. Martha and Alexis passed by, waving, heading for the Morris dance, because that's where the cute boys were (and where Selma was not).

Castle stood next to Kate. "Would you like to give me a dancing lesson? I hear I'm a quick study."

Kate shook her head. "I don't know, are you partial to the Moravak Kolo?"

"Sounds like a soft drink."

"It's a Serbian folk dance. My grandfather taught me."

"Is it going to make me look like an idiot?"

She gestured to the somewhat-shadowy edge of the room, and he followed her.

"Not more-so than usual." In the relative shelter between two chairs, she unbuckled her ankle straps and then, looking around quickly, reached up underneath her skirt and pulled off her lace-topped, thigh-high stockings. She added, "I won't make you wear the traditional curly-toed elf shoes." She rolled up the stockings and tucked them in her purse, setting it on a chair.

Castle removed his jacket and laid it across a chair's back. Deliberately _NOT_ Watching Her Slide Her Stockings Off, he swallowed and said, "Good, because I doubt elf shoes come in size 12."

She grinned, speaking in an accent Castle had never heard before, rolling her r's. It sounded vaguely Russian to his ear. "Oh, big strong Serbian men-feet go with big strong Serbian women-feet. My feet are size 11. Women's. I will bear many fat goats into the field on my long duck feet."

"And we're both a lot less likely to blow over in a stiff breeze." Castle removed his shoes too. He was wearing black socks with Green Lantern logos knitted into them. He tucked both of their shoe sets together under the chair. One of her delicate, towering silver sandals looked tired; it leaned over slightly, his big black boat of a shoe supporting its weight. Rick smiled at the thought and turned back to Kate. "Macanack Cola?"

"Moravac Kolo," Kate grinned. "Okay, stand next to me. You start with grapevines, like we just did en masse. Two to the right, then two to the left. Good. Now step forward, rock back. Step backward, rock forward. No, watch. Like this. Yes. Now a cross-step-shuffle."

He stopped, confused and laughing. "Break it down again."

She did, more slowly. After a few tries, he had it.

"Now comes the hard part. All of those forward-backs are actually with vertical leaps, like a deer. And you can't move your upper body."

"What?"

"Really. Like this." She demonstrated the Kolo and Castle laughed.

"Oh, my god, that's cute." It wasn't just cute. Her breasts were fighting to bounce out of the hard-wired bra/ superhero breastplate lurking under her navy dress.

 _"Cute!?_ That's not the desired reaction!" she blushed. "This is a great hallmark of Serbian culture. Very serious." But she was grinning. "Now you try it. Keep your upper body rigid. No, not like a chicken! Your head, too."

Castle said, "It's like the difference between dancing and a Monty Python Silly Walk. You do it all alone without music, it just looks weird. You do it in a group with music, and suddenly it's a folk dance." He showed her, raising his knee almost to chest height, nearly falling over, then stalking about like a stilt-legged crane. "You do this with me, and people will think we're the greatest dance troupe since sliced bread."

"Sliced Bread isn't a dance troupe."

"Maybe they couldn't raise enough dough," he smirked. He leaped to the side, clapped three times, spun, and wiggled his head on his neck like a marionette.

Beckett said, "Hey, that wasn't half bad. Do it again."

"I can't remember it now, I just made it up."

"Follow me, then." She raised her knee to chest height, fell into a lunge, did three stalking steps, leaped to the side, clapped three times, spun, and wiggled her head, both of them laughing.

Selma looked over, slightly irritated. Everyone in her group wanted to learn the tango, but they were all quite stiff and serious about it, and the giggles were distracting. "You two up-cutters wanna give us all a lesson?"

Rick said, "What, Silly Walk?"

Selma beckoned imperiously, "You come on over, Mr. Smartypan's. You too, Katarina." She motioned to the accordion player, and to everyone's mild surprise, stepped over to Beckett instead of Castle and took her by the hands with a friendly smile. "Now, you are barefoot, so there will be no sliding. But yust follow my lead." Selma had a little trouble with that _j_ sound.

Kate was locked into the intensity of her stare. Too embarrassed to refuse, she let Selma position her hands and tell her what to do with her feet. Selma's perfume – a jasmine/amber concoction called Sîrene du Mer – wafted up from her gleaming cleavage; it was cloying, but she kept on sniffing anyway. It was a strange thing, dancing with this sexy woman, feeling inelegant and slow by comparison, but the focus was so compelling, and she was wholly caught up in the moment. Selma turned her, pulled her, pushed her. "Pooosh back, Kate. This isn't yust lovemaking. This is _resistance_. Meet the force with force, but do not exceed it. You _know_ how to resist."

Selma went through the basic steps, breaking it down slowly for the small group of eight couples. "Now, Ricardo, you take a partner, and we give everyone a chance to try it out, how it feels. No grab-assy, people, this is a family event," she chuckled. She actually leaned into Kate, wrapped a curvy leg around the taller woman's hips, and said, "Drag me like you mean it, Pretty Girl."

Kate basically found herself backing up in rather a panic, with a soft ball and chain along for the ride. But it was surprisingly easy; Selma was like one of those cats who seem to have an anti-gravity setting when you pick them up. "Haha, you stronger than you loo-ook!" Selma chuckled.

For some reason this struck Kate as funny, and she snickered, "I work out."

Selma's bright eyes scanned her face, and she spoke low. "Ricardo is the same. Smartass boy, but he hides a tender heart. He has grown so much since I seen him last time." Kate could see a question in Selma's eyes. _"Do you have what it takes to earn a man like that?"_

Kate didn't know how to respond to that honestly, so she rolled her eyes a little. "You can't take the boy out of the man." Suddenly Selma's dancing became much more forceful, and the tiny, strong woman had taken the lead back from Kate, propelling her student around the dance floor as she struggled to keep up with the lightning-fast, complex steps.

"Why ever would you want to?" Selma stopped, finished with Kate's mini-lesson, and pasted on a plastic, megawatt smile. "Put your shoes back on, you will be following now. This may be hard for you." Two by two the dance students paired off, then Rick or Selma would interrupt and demonstrate, correcting position, showing how to balance their bodies, using leverage as much as strength. Beckett watched them over their progression of partners. Castle really was a good dancer, careful not to step on the awkward, giggling women and girls as he gently guided them through the steps, smiling politely. She thought, "They're all gonna go home with lighter checkbooks tonight."

Her shoes on, she stood on the sidelines, waiting for the lesson to finish. Selma called out, "Good, good. Now watch Rick and Kate."

 _Oh, no._

Selma saw Kate hesitate again and smirked, "Unless you would like _me_ to..."

Kate stammered, and Rick's blue eyes widened, somewhere between fear of rejection, hope, alarm, and concern for her. Kate said, "No, I'll just... But I'm not that good, I'll have to fake it."

"Yust follow his lead. He'll poosh. You hold the tension. You've done it with me, you can do it with him."

Kate nodded, standing still. Selma said, "Breathe. Yust keep moving. You know what to do."

" _Ok. I can breathe."_ She breathed. Rick stepped up to her, his right hand on the back of her ribcage, his left holding hers. She gritted, "Do not do _anything_ weird."

"Me?" he said innocently. And then his expression changed, those damn eyes laser-focused on hers, and a flock of doves burst into sunlit flight against the eye-blue sky in her brain, effectively disabling any resistance she'd been able to muster. "I'll just try not to step on your toes, Detective Beckett."

And they were dancing. He was so close. His hands on her body, placed sure and solid. Her feet seemed to move of their own accord, as if in a dream, and she felt... graceful. Treasured. They started slowly, and he sped them up once she'd mastered the steps. She stumbled a moment, and heard Selma's reassuring voice. "Transfer your weight to your forward foot, Kate. Then step over. Ricardo will step over to stop your foot: like a samwich."

Kate's foot was indeed trapped momentarily between Rick's. He leaned back slightly, pulling her close, aligning her to him on a slant, then peeling her away like a windblown scrap of satin to hang back against the tension of their bodies. He pulled her in, spinning her out and back in again, caged in his arms. The move was similar to that time they were doing reconnaissance at that fundraising event, but in spirit, it was wholly different. Now they could focus only on one another, unable to escape into work-mode. They were moving with, and to, and around the music now. Kate's nervousness faded, and she blocked out all the other melodies in the noisy room, all the laughing and foot stomps and singing fading away. She touched his inside left ankle with her right toe, then the outside, then lifted her knee to let her calf slither down his. He backed up, let her slide down more, took her weight on the solid muscle of his thigh, then dragged her, hauling her up with effortless speed so that her leg was wrapped for a brief three seconds around his hips. For a moment she thought he was going to kiss her. Then, he spun her out off his hip somehow, while she pulled herself back in, balancing the tension. It was exhilarating, and she wanted to dance all night, except that she also wanted to screw his brains out, and she wasn't sure which she wanted more.

Selma clapped for attention. "All right, everyone, change par'ners."

Kate was reluctant to let him go, and did she imagine that he felt the same? But each turned politely to meet their new partners. Rick danced first with a young blonde woman with very expensive breasts; and Kate, with a roundish, baldish, pinkish man. Selma had them all moving, turning, swiveling, but with partner after partner, Beckett felt nothing like the intense connection she had with Castle. They came round to the beginning again, and she was with Rick for no more than a few turns when Selma cut in.

Kate had to admit Rick and Selma were an electrifying team. Although Rick didn't cop a feel, either for show or for his own sake, he seemed as focused on Selma as he had just been on Kate. Clearly they enjoyed moving like this together. Perhaps it was muscle memory, or force of habit on his part or Selma's, but it was easy to see how it must have been for them as lovers, him no more than nineteen, playful and eager to please. Kate folded her arms over her chest, feeling her heart beating too fast. She looked around for Alexis and Martha, who were still doing the Virginia reel, each with a partner, gallivanting down the aisle of clapping folk dancers as the more distant fiddle played merrily. She suddenly needed to leave. The accordion music stopped, there was quiet applause amongst the tango class, and then Kate made for the side chair to find her purse. She decided not to put her stockings back on. No need for any more ostentation in the room than was already there.

Selma was holding Rick's hand, clinging to a surprisingly massive bicep with the other. "Take a bow, Ricardo. Muscle memory hasn't failed you, even though you really should be practicing."

"I'm duly chastised," he said, bowing and kissing her hand. He gave her his most charming smile, friendly, but with no heat to it. "Now, if you'll excuse me," he gestured toward Kate.

Kate didn't see that. She was looking down into her purse for her phone, planning to call herself a cab. She started walking out, dialing...

There was a hand on her arm. "Kate."

She spun, angry. "Saying goodnight?"

"What? No!" He looked around. "At least, not to you. I mean, not yet. Let's get you home, it's late."

"I can get there myself. It's fine."

"Of course you can. But 'fine' isn't just a mispronunciation of 'fun'."

Kate stopped with a brief, restrained sigh. "It _has_ been fun, Castle, really. I appreciate the cake and all, I just... I need to go. Work in the morning, you know?"

She wasn't sure whether it was understanding or defeat on his face. "I'll get your coat." He went to the coat check stand and turned in their tickets. The caterers had left, and the event organizers were cleaning up, recycling the unused programs. The house lights switched on. Castle stuck his head outdoors, and then backed in again, swinging the glass door closed against the blast.

"It's snowing," he said. "Better put your stockings back on, it got really cold out there."

"I'll be..."

"You want me to carry you?"

"Of course not."

"As is, you're wearing sandals. The stockings might keep you a little warmer. Like a football player."

"You sound like somebody's dad."

"I am somebody's dad."

"Not mine."

"Well, that's a good thing, because..." he stopped.

"What?"

"Never mind."

She put her black mohair evening coat on. "'Night, Castle." She turned to go.

His hand on her shoulder, he spun her, caught her hand, and placed his right behind her ribcage. Instinctively, she pulled back, then pressed into him as he pressed into her, a push-me-pull-you, their eyes frustrated, angry, yearning.

She seethed, "Let me go." He'd sandwiched her foot between his, just as when they'd been dancing. She wanted to kick him in the shins, and she was close enough to do worse, but what she really wanted to do was collapse into him. She resorted to sarcasm. "Ah. The sensuous tension of tango. Maybe you need a refresher course. From _Selma_."

"Stockings." That one word was like having the inside of her thigh stroked by his tongue. The man could do unfair things with his voice, especially in the rare moments that he decided to take charge.

He relaxed his grip on her slightly, waiting to see if she'd bolt. "Someone really ought to make a pun right about now." _Push. Pull. Balance. Spin her out. Reel her back in._ He smirked, narrowing his eyes. Waiting. Thinking so loudly. _"Say it, Kate."  
_

"Will your stalking never end," she huffed.

He laughed. "Yes!"

She rolled her eyes. "Fine. But I'm not doing it out here."

"Good enough." He took her elbow again – not rudely, just with a certain firmness – and led her to the ladies lounge. There was no one else inside, so he actually followed her in with a look of naughty delight.

She said, "You're not supposed to come in here."

"This is just the lounge," he said. "And it's after closing time. If anyone asks, tell them I'm the janitor." This was an old-style room, its own separate lobby from the toilet and sink area, with 20-foot ceilings. It was lined with gilt-framed mirrors, furnished with velvet fainting couches and carved vanity tables. The lounge was beautifully lit, painted a soft peach that cast a flattering glow on their skin, and the upholstery and carpet were a riot of Art Deco geometry. A gilded bas-relief of a round-breasted goddess and her minions graced one wall. Castle grinned. "The men's rooms are never this much fun."

Kate sat down on a champagne-and-coral colored velvet couch and pulled her stockings out of her purse, then set about removing her sandals. She said ruefully, "I really should've worn pumps."

Castle said, "Either that or curly-toed elf shoes. I hear they're all the rage in Serbia." He made a half-hearted leap, narrowly avoiding a potted fern. "Univac koala."

Beckett couldn't help smiling at that. "Not even close, Castle." She bunched the stockings around her fingers and pulled them up the length of her legs to top her thighs.

Castle turned away discreetly, then realized anywhere he looked there was a mirror, and they all seemed to want to look at Kate as much as he did.

She found herself wishing she'd catch him looking. Then she noticed from the corner of her eye that he could see everything in a full-length mirror; he was standing close to it, cleaning Selma's glossy red stamp of approval off his cheeks with a handkerchief. Perversely, Kate pretended not to see him, and hitched her skirt up just a little higher, smoothing the stretchy lace stocking-top over the fullest part of her thigh. She did the same thing on the other side, aware that he was still watching, and then her foot cramped. "Son of a..."

He turned back to her. "What?"

She rubbed her foot. "Oh, these shoes make my arch cramp. I don't know what it is, sometimes it feels worse to take them off than it does to wear them."

"Probably the pitch of the shank. Shoes like that are meant to be taken off as soon as possible."

"I'm going to hate myself in the morning."

She was expecting a quip. To her surprise he walked away, went to the water cooler and returned to her with two full paper cups. "You're probably a little dehydrated." He handed one to her and initiated a silent toast.

She raised her cup then drank it down. "Thanks." Then she finished buckling her ankle straps again. "Okay. Ready."

She suddenly didn't want to leave. The couch was comfy, the room was warm and beautiful, and she was overtaken with an urge to just lie back on the chaise lounge, smiling up at him, with no goddamn Selma to ruin it. Maybe she should try some kind of cheesy pinup pose. Put one knee up, twist her upper body a little so her cleavage would do a little more cleaving... Would the house manager just turn off all the lights, accidentally leave them in here for the night? Would...

Castle checked his phone. "Car's here." He smiled tightly, already halfway out the door. "You coming, Beckett?"

She nodded. "Yeah. Thanks."

She took his offered arm as he pulled the door open and stepped into the theater lobby. They were among the last to leave, Martha and Alexis having gone a while before (probably slinking out past them while they argued).

Selma smiled at them on their way out; she and Dame Cecilia were chatting with a few old friends. "Would you like to come out for cocktails with us?"

Rick shook his head, not even giving Kate time to brace herself for rejection again. "Sorry, I have a meeting tomorrow morning. It was a lovely evening." He gave each of the ladies a warm hug. "So nice to see you all again."

Kate shook hands with a murmured, "An amazing show. Thank you!"

They headed outside.

* * *

•

Cecilia turned to Selma after they left. "Oh, well."

Selma shrugged. "I'll try giving him a call in the morning. Doesn't look like he'll be getting lucky tonight..."

Cecelia nodded. "She's pretty, but what a sourpuss."

"I give them two weeks."

"By then you'll be back in Buenos Aires."

"Eh. I have frequent flyer miles." Selma chuckled. But her eyes were sad. Whatever she had had with her Ricardo was now water under the bridge, whether or not Kate Beckett was gonna put out. He had it bad.

* * *

•

It was quite cold, and Kate found herself shivering almost immediately. The town car was waiting for them, the driver also shivering as he pulled the door open. She and Castle ducked inside, grateful for the blasting heat, and the car was on the move as soon as they buckled up.

"Unusual to get snow before Thanksgiving," Castle observed.

"Yeah," Kate said quietly. Dark days ahead. She wanted to lean on something, close her eyes. Instead of the warmth of his shoulder, she chose the cold window against her temple. Her head ached, as did her feet and calves. "I should have stretched out."

"You all right?"

"Actually this is the best birthday I've had in years," she admitted. "In spite of myself." She reached across to pat his right hand. "Thank you."

His left hand closed over hers as well, lifted and lowered. "Sandwich."

"Hm?"

"Hand-tango. You've been sandwiched."

She rolled her eyes. "Just when I think you can't get more ridiculous."

"It knows no bounds. Really, I've checked."

She tried half-heartedly to pull her hand away.

He was imitating Selma now, his voice cracking into a hilarious falsetto range, the accent spot-on. "No, Katarrina. Chu half to poooosh. Rreseest."

She pushed up, using the strength of her bicep as Castle gently pushed down on her hand. "The force is strong in this one," he murmured. "Look, she can move things with her brain."

"What things?"

Castle grimaced and blushed furiously. "Oops. Went a little too far there. Backpedaling."

Kate looked askance at him. He shifted in his seat, and she realized his pants weren't quite fitting the way they usually did. "Oh."

He let go of her hand. "Sorry," he added. "May need to get my pants re-tailored." He looked away out the window. Blew out long and low, his sigh clouding the cold glass. "We're almost here. There. We're almost there. Sorry."

"Yes, we are." She leaned forward to thank and tip the driver as the car pulled up. "You don't need to open the door for me. Just stay warm." She opened it herself, and the wind swirled around her.

Rick sighed, cursing his own lack of a filter. He just didn't know how to do this right. How many times was he going to ruin things with her, how many ways? Was she even going to say goodnight, or just slam the door?

She bent down into the car, her black coat still unbuttoned, the white pearls dangling over her breasts, her hair already mussed by the wind. Snowflakes fluttered around her like angels looking for a place to land on God.

She stared down at Rick, considering. He _had_ just given her a reasonably nice birthday evening. And here he was, looking up with blue eyes so hopeful, like a husky pup wanting to play. Resistance fell away, and she let herself really smile at him.

She _smiled_ at him. A _real_ smile. He had a silent disassociative moment. _"Nikki smiled at Rook, and his mouth hung open in frozen astonishment."_

"Wanna come up for a drink, Castle?"

He swallowed, "Uh, yeah. Yes. I'd love to." She nodded, turned away and hurried toward the doorway, pulling her coat tight around her.

He murmured to the driver, "If you don't hear from me in ten minutes, call it a night."

The driver nodded and winked.

Rick followed inside, and the building lobby seemed weirdly silent, its hard surfaces echoing sharply in comparison to the fuzzy roar of the storm outside. Kate's feet were freezing and hurt like hell. She led the way to the elevator, and told Castle, "When we get to my apartment, pardon me if I just go change, I feel like I'm wearing a birdcage."

"On your feet?"

"Not exactly. You had to have felt it, under the dress."

"Oh, yeah. That." That mysterious, hard, wirey undergarment that would either look like an iron maiden or a deceptively delicate confection. Good Lord. Was Beckett talking about her _underwear_? "I take it that's not a backbrace for scoliosis."

Kate grinned. "No, but after four hours, plus the dancing, it feels that way."

At her third-floor apartment, they found flowers at the door. It was an autumnal arrangement of yellow-bronze chrysanthemums and burgundy roses. She bent to it, and looked at the card. Smiled at Castle. "From my dad. Get the door?"

She offered Castle her key ring, and he took it, feeling its weight in his hand for a fraction of a second, wondering, wishing, hoping, that it was perhaps symbolic of her willingness to let him in. In _any_ way. It didn't have to be sex, although sex would be nice. Really nice. And a serious step he suddenly questioned whether he was at all ready to take - whereas any time up to that evening, he would have jumped at the chance.

The key went in, then hitched, and she said, "You have to be pretty firm with it. Jiggle it a little as you turn."

"Sounds like a plan." He opened the door and held it for her, letting her walk ahead to find the light switch. The wiring was in need of an update, and he made a mental note of it. Wouldn't want the place burning down. He stood at the door, wondering what to do with himself as she swept past, setting the flowers on the kitchen island. He stayed there, trying not to look anxious or overeager, looking around the apartment he had heretofore barely glimpsed. She pulled off her coat and went for the closet, glanced at him casually.

"Ugh," she groaned. "My legs are so cold they itch. Here, let me take your coat. Jacket too."

He looked down at her legs. They were pink and blotchy under her sheer stockings. And still spectacular.

"You must be freezing. I went to one private Catholic school where they made us wear shorts even in winter."

"That's evil," she said. "Poor little guys."

"I think it was to prevent us having impure thoughts."

"Well, about sex, maybe, but you probably still thought about killing the administrators."

"Only Brother Dominic. He was enough to turn anyone off Catholicism for life."

She said, "I'm gonna hit the bathroom. Can you please boil some water for tea? Pilot's automatic, you don't need matches."

He nodded, busying himself in the kitchen, realizing this was probably a ploy so he'd have no time to snoop around the rest of her place while she was indisposed. He guessed where she kept mugs and tea, found some chamomile bags and some honey long-crystallized in the jar. He sliced a rather leathery-looking lemon, smiling wanly at it. "Well, you may be a fossil, but you're still a bit juicy on the inside."

"I'm flattered," said Beckett's tart voice behind him.

He turned and held up the slice of lemon. "I was referring to myself."

To his surprise, she was still dressed. Her hair looked a bit mussed, as if she'd been struggling with it, but then, some had come loose in the blizzard. She held up an offending hair pin. "Look, I was wondering, would you help me take my hair down?"

"Well, considering I got you into this mess..."

She nodded. "You're going to have to help me get out of it."


	3. Chapter 3 - Pearl By Pearl

_Dear Skeptical Guest:  
1) Silver strappy sandals do indeed come in women's size 11 – this is American sizing, which is different from the rest of the world's. _  
_If you want the steamy version, you're gonna have to introduce yourself, and you must be over 18. :-D  
2) You are correct that Beckett is an English name and Stana is Serbian. However, everyone has four grandparents. So I figure that Jim is English on his dad's side and unknown on his mom's side. At one point Kate mentions her grandmother as a "nonna".  
In my headcanon, Johanna had a Serbian grandfather and Italian grandmother, who were immigrants. So Johanna's mom would have married a Houghton man against his parents wishes, and likely have had a bit of trouble from the Houghton side of the family - the Houghtons being a very wealthy family involved in publishing and other lucrative industries._

I've covered a little bit of that backstory - just barely, in two prequels: "Love Letters" and "With This Ring".

 _I am absolutely blown away by how many people have responded to this simple little romance. And now, the rest of the T-rated version.  
_

* * *

 _*I just got a very odd review from Theresa471, which was not a review but rather sort of a preview of a story about Alexis kissing someone. This bothers me because  
1) Theresa didn't bother to review the actual story I wrote (and she may not have read it)  
2) Theresa is a terrible proofreader whose story had multiple errors in grammar, spelling, and punctuation on the FIRST PAGE, and  
3) Oh, I dunno, I'm just grumpy and 3 seems better than 2._

Moral of the story: Use due diligence with the proofreading, have the courtesy to read the story you're "reviewing", and don't spam people the very first time you meet them.

Theresa471, I deleted your review, but I will leave these tasty samples of your erroneous ways here, for your eternal shame:

 _•" At the time, she just could not understand, as to why her father would be upset at me, after just getting home his long book tour."  
• "_ _I have decided after peeking my interested with dinner tonight, to continue on with talking to Will, for which he asked me to call him that when alone."_

* * *

 **Castle Fan Fiction**

 **Exotic Dances for the Complete Beginner**

 **Chapter 3  
**

* * *

Rick nodded silently.

With an inviting smile, Kate led him to the bathroom, which he found lit by three candles: one on the counter, two glowing in sconces on the wall. As all the imaginary voices in his head twittered, _"_ _Candles. She lit candles. O_ _oh my god omigod oh. my. God. Ohmigod Good Lord what is she_ _up to?_ _is this happening? Oh, my god I sound like a_ _seventeen_ _-y_ _ear-old virgin..."_ (he had actually never been a 17-year-old virgin. That's another story.) But he said, like an adult sure of what he was doing, "Take a seat on the vanity stool again."

"Okay." She was glad to get off her feet. The shoes were so pretty, but they were slowly killing her.

"First the necklace, so the clasp won't tangle in your hair. Lean toward the light a little."

She nodded, and let him pull her gently back toward the candle sconce. He said, "It's small. I'll have to come close to see it."

Neither of them suggested the practical thing, which would have been switching the light on.

He struggled a little, just as he had putting it on, only it was darker now. She could feel his breath, warm and sweet on her neck. Finally he unfastened the clasp, holding one end, and the other end dropped to slide vertically down between her breasts. She kept her hands folded in her lap, doing nothing to retrieve it. He said, "Sorry."

She gave him a Mona Lisa smile, watched him in the mirror, silently. He pulled the necklace up slowly, and murmured, "Pearl by pearl." Her scent clung to the strand. He treasured the small, solid weight in his hand a moment, then set the necklace on an antique enameled tray with a little bird perched on it. Kate took her earrings out and placed them with the necklace.

"Now my hair," she said. She continued watching him in the mirror as he took her hair down, one pin at a time, uncoiling the French twist in back with care to avoid tangles. In the warm light, his face was a study in masculine beauty: his long nose sharp, his blue eyes shadowed, his lips slightly open as if he were already leaning in to kiss her. But he didn't. He concentrated on her hair.

"Pin by pin," he murmured, fluffing her hair out with his fingers. It was rather stiff from the cheap hairspray, but the effect was pretty, her face framed by a soft, voluminous swoop, then the wild curls at the ends, catching the candlelight. He finger-combed it, just rearranging it a little, knowing better than to yank on the stiff glue holding it smooth. The pins joined the pearls, in the wavering shadow of the small iron bird.

"My shoes?" she whispered. She swiveled around toward him, her back now to the mirror.

 _"_ _Maybe there is a God,"_ he thought. He nodded silently, kneeling before her on the thick bathroom mat. He unbuckled the silver ankle straps, and she sighed with relief when they came off. He said, "Kind of like Cinderella, only backwards."

She sighed. "Man, that hurts."

He could have teased her, could have said, _"Why didn't you take them off sooner instead of waiting for me?"_ But that would have been phenomenally stupid of him. He put the flat of his hands on his knees, waiting, thinking at any moment she'd say, _"Go home,_ _Castle. T_ _hat's enough for one night, see you at the precinct."_ Or worse, _"This is a terrible idea. I can't believe I let you actually touch me."_

He heard the tea kettle whistling. He said, "Hot. It's... Kettle." His voice was deep, husky, his eyes on a level with her chest as he knelt before her. This was her chance to escape, to throw him out, or to scuttle out to the living room and sit on the couch with a cup of chamomile for ten minutes making awkward conversation, then say goodnight. No way this was going anywhere. Saved by the whistle. Buh-bye.

She nodded, got up, and headed for the kitchen, breaking the spell. "Take off your shoes. I'll be right back." She was limping a little, the muscles in her feet still cramped from the height and cold.

" _Take off my shoes. Take off my, oh, my god."_ An entire Greek chorus rose up in his head. Was she seriously inviting him to take off his shoes? _"This can't be happening."_ He obeyed, sitting on her vanity stool, setting them neatly to the side next to hers. But he left his socks on to avoid a humiliating delay if she changed her mind. She'd turned the heat on in the apartment, and a warm draft came off the coiled radiator by the wall. It felt marvelous. _  
_

She returned to him. The brighter light from the kitchen behind her spilled past her silhouette. From his angle, he could see a haze of light between her slim legs, through the translucent jersey knit of her dress. She stepped past him, her feet silent on the mat and the tile floor. As she bent over the tub, the cocktail dress hitched up a little, revealing the tops of her stockings, up well past her mid-thigh. She started up the bathtub water, got the temperature to her liking, and put the plug in. Castle just watched, hope warring with dread.

"Beckett," he said. She barely heard him over the thunder of the water. His voice was deep and quiet. He sat on the vanity stool, looking up at her with sorrowful, hooded, confused eyes. "Maybe I should leave now."

She bent, cupped his jaws in her hands, and he continued to gaze up at her. At this point, there was no way _'let me down easy'_ could be anything other than awful. "Rick. Can you follow my lead?"

"I can try."

"This can't be your usual version of _'stay in the car'_."

"Whatever you want, Detective."

She arched an eyebrow and said thoughtfully, "Whatever I want?"

She kissed him on the lips, very lightly, then ran her fingers from his jaw to shoulders, stroking the soft white cotton of his shirt, down the inside of his wrists to his hands. He shivered pleasurably. She said, "Are you cold?

He shook his head. "Actually, it's a bit steamy in here." His heart was pounding. "I think you just kissed me."

"Yes, I did."

"This... could get complicated." He swallowed. He already knew he really _liked_ her. Was sexually obsessed with her. And often thought she often didn't like him and almost certainly didn't love him. Yet. Yet. _Yet_ he didn't want to stop this. Whatever it was.

"Then let's keep it simple, Castle. You and me. Tonight. That's it."

 _"That's a start,"_ thought the angel on his shoulder. The devil on his other shoulder said, _"_ _E_ _ither that, or it's the beginning of the end."_

The angel and devil reached through his brain and shook hands somewhere around the hippocampus. Okay, they actually made out a little.

He nodded, trying to gather his thoughts, afraid of asking too much. But taking too much, without asking, would be utterly disastrous. Trying to keep his hands out of trouble, he grasped hers gently. "I really want... everything," He said. "I want to touch you."

She knew where, but she gave him a slow, sultry blink. "Where?"

"Everywhere."

"Not everywhere, Castle. You can knock at the door, but for tonight, you can't come in. No penetration, no bites, no marks of any kind. And you stop when I say stop, and you leave when I say leave. Can you do that?"

His heart sank and soared at the same time. She trusted him, maybe _more_ than if she'd just intended to have sex and dump him (People do that all the time. It's pretty easy if you really don't care. Worse, it's not that hard if you actually do care but are pretending to yourself that you don't). "I can do that. I'll follow your lead."

She smirked at him. "Remember high school, when you had to wait four years even to get this far on prom night?"

Castle simpered a little. "I didn't have to wait that long. Sarah Stanton and I got to third base behind the huckleberry bushes at summer camp when we were twelve. But we both got poison ivy in really bad places and wound up getting sent home early."

Kate rolled her eyes. "Don't count on even getting to first base, Castle. But... We can only hope the wait will be worth your while this time."

 _"I'll make it worth your while,"_ he thought. He nodded again. "This is already way past what I would have expected."

"Well, I'm having a good day," she purred. She loosened his tie further, removed it, and looped it over the bathroom doorknob. She had his formal vest unbuttoned and shrugged off, then his shirt a moment later, finding under that a white, V-neck tee. She pulled up on the hem. He was happy to peel it off as the room was growing steadily hotter, or maybe that was just him.

She had never seen quite so much of him before, and she wondered why that was, why he kept covered up like a secret. He wasn't cut, but he was built for physical work, like a lumberjack or a Depression-era prizefighter. A solid, real man. Not for an airbrushed magazine, but to have and hold onto... _no, no, no, I don't - can't - think like that._

He said, "Is there anything else I can help you with?"

"My dress. I can't decide whether to lift it up or down."

"No zippers?"

"No, it's just stretchy. No buttons."

Still seated, he put his hands at her ribs, trying to decide but hampered by a certain lack of blood flow to the brain. He was already so hard it was amazing he hadn't busted his own zipper. (Note: the bulge in his trousers was not actually a tailoring problem. It was because he was a sexually healthy man with an erect penis) (Do I have to explain everything?) He stroked down her flanks with his palms and caught the dress hem mid-thigh. "Let's go up?" he suggested. She nodded.

He pulled the dress up slowly, standing as he did so. First the lacy tops of the stockings were revealed. Then her panties, with a band of gleaming black silk at the center, dipping at front and back, panels of lace at the sides embracing her sleek hips. He turned her around then, so she could see herself in the mirror, and he could see the lace cupping over the delectable swell of her ass. He hitched the dress up higher, past her waist now, and found the band of lace and satin around her ribcage, the vertical boning giving definition to a body already chiseled by weekly hours of exercise and martial arts training. He stopped and said, "There's something I need to do."

She looked a little dismayed. "What?"

He bent to glide his lips alongside the right of her neck, kissing along the sensitive skin, down to her shoulder and up again, then sucked gently at her earlobe, and whispered, "Just this."

She gasped and her hips circled, but he held himself away, afraid of being overstimulated. He pulled the dress higher, revealing the strapless cups of her bra, breasts imprisoned in the complex framework.

"Lift your arms," he murmured. She raised them overhead, gracefully, and he was reminded of a flamenco dancer. He rolled the dress up past her hands, the sleeves turning inside out. He hung the dress on a door hook, and said, "Wait a moment." He turned off the tub water. "Displacement." Sometimes it was the unlikely words that came to the surface, leaving behind the obvious like, _"It's gonna run over when you get in."_ There were too many thinks in his brainpan. He gestured helplessly. "Archimedes."

Kate nodded, knowing. "Eureka."

"Sometimes you actually get me." His face lit up in a beaming smile.

She returned it. "This time you actually get _me_." He rushed to her, enfolded her in his arms, kissed her. Her lips opened to meet him, and their tongues curled and rippled together. The silk and lace of her bra rasped against the bare skin of his belly and chest. It felt hard, forbidding, enticing, soft, a study in contrast. Like her.

* * *

•

He ran hot hands down her ass, cupped her thigh, and she lifted one leg to wrap around him, her smooth panties pressed hard against the bulge in his trousers.

He stopped himself, panting, "Stockings."

They pulled apart, and he was down on the floor again. Bade her sit. He cupped two reverent hands around the top of her thigh, lifted the elastic lace away from her skin and rolled first her right stocking down, then her left, allowing her to lift one foot at a time. He looked sympathetically at her feet. The sandals had left pink impressions in her skin, and he sat back on the floor, grabbed some lotion off the counter, and massaged some into her feet. She groaned, feeling the circulation return. Her knees were far apart, and he admired her legs' sculpted beauty. He ran fingers up the backs of her knees, inside her thighs to the hollows on either side of her panties, formed by tendon, muscle, bone, and the sumptuous, alluring contours of a healthy woman who could run like the wind and still enjoy a cheeseburger once in a while. He glanced up at her rapt face. Her mouth was slightly slack, her eyes half-open.

He flattened a palm against her mound, circling it. Making her want, want more. She braced herself against the counter, rocked her hips against his hand. "Ah."

Her fingers skimmed over the cups of her bra, teasing her own nipples, although he couldn't see them. Yet. He reached up tentatively, cupping his hand against the wire and seamed lace. Flicked his thumbs against nipples he could barely feel, but she reacted with a soft "Oh." He did it again, this time alternating from one side to another, and she licked her lips, murmuring "Yeah." She leaned her shoulders against the vanity counter, her rib cage arching up to him.

"You don't have to hurt to be beautiful," he whispered, stroking his index finger down the center of her chest, where the merry-widow bra hooked. "May I?"

She nodded. He began to unfasten the hooks, starting at the bottom, releasing her abdomen so that she could really breathe. Hook by hook, up past her solar plexus to the sternum. He tossed the bra aside without a second glance, freeing her firm, close-set, elegant little breasts. Here also, the bra's boning had pressed warm, irritated red marks into her delicate skin. Kneeling before her, he traced the marks with soft kisses, his lips satiny, firing her every nerve, and she twitched, arching into him. "Touch me," she whispered.

Still between her knees, he pulled her forward, suckling on distended nipples that were already hard and rayed with raised mauve flesh, like little gumdrop suns. She looked down at him as he moved back and forth from one to the other. He was kneeling before her like a supplicant. They were only inches away from fucking like animals. But she didn't want that, not tonight. No, she _did_ want it, of course she did. But she needed not to _need_ it.

She leaned forward, put her arms around his shoulders and kissed him deeply as he played with her breasts. She ran kisses along his jaw, then she pulled back abruptly and wrinkled her goddamned adorable little nose. "I can still smell Selma's perfume on you."

"I believe it was _'Poulet au Paradise'_." They both snickered a little. "Should we wash it off?" he gestured to the tub.

She nodded. "Stand up."

He stood before her, so close, then looked down at her. She kissed his chest, right over his heart, and said, "I'd like to take your pants off now."

He nodded silently, his expression bleary with desire. She stood close before him on the soft bath rug, went for his belt, then the button and zipper. The black trousers were fairly loose, and underneath, to her surprise he wore charcoal colored brief-shorts. They fit snugly, cupped him and kept him somewhat restrained. "This explains your intriguing lack of visible underwear line," she chuckled.

"Why, Detective. I had no idea you'd even been looking."

She scratched her short nails lightly over the cotton knit, and he gasped.

She grinned. "I'd expected silk boxers."

He shook his head. "Little Castle has a certain... wanderlust."

"Little? I think not." She cupped his package in her hand, loving the warmth and weight as he strained into her grasp.

His voice cracked a little. " _Proportionally Appropriate_ Castle? Anyway, best to keep him and the boys out of trouble. Especially when folk dancing."

Truth be told, she was a little relieved. Castle was a big man, in many ways, but she'd been with men who were _too_ big, and that's not nearly as much fun as you might think.

Kate grinned. "I have to say there's more than one thing about you that's perfect." She slid her hands back around his beautiful, round ass. He rocked, making very little sound except a quiet grunt, his hands on her shoulders, restraining himself from smashing her into his member as it pressed against her silky underwear. But she rubbed against him a little, leaving them both gasping.

He laughed breathlessly, "Unh, now I know why they call them panties!"

She gave a delightful shimmy. "Let's get that perfume off you."

And then she turned away, slipping off her underwear to reveal her exceptionally pleasing little ass. She glanced back to catch him staring in slack-jawed wonder, and stepped into the tub, which really was kind of immense, at least a foot wider and deeper than the usual. He watched her, debating his next move, blessing the lack of bubbles that let him see every golden curve of her body.

She patted her knee. "Come on in. Careful not to splash."

"Should I, uh..." he hesitated. "Look, I promise to stay in the car, but can I still play with the radio dials?"

She laughed. "Maybe. If you ask nicely and stop if I tell you to."

"Deal." He started to get in, keeping his shorts on. Not wanting to assume anything.

"Lose the shorts, Castle."

He nodded. "Ok, then." He dropped his briefs on the floor and looked down at his obvious arousal with a mix of anxiety (about the situation) and understandable pride (about the equipment itself, which had garnered much admiration in the past). Her eyes raked over him, head to toe, and her sweet little pink tongue darted out to moisten her lower lip. She said, "Come sit in my lap. But put your back to me."

"Really?"

"Yeah. Like in Pretty Woman."

"Never seen it."

"Seriously?"

"Oh, come on, Beckett. A rom-com. With whores. Stupid premise." He rolled his eyes a little.

"True." She leaned back against the tub incline, and he turned away from her, trying to sit down without sticking his bottom right in her face (although she wouldn't have minded much...). He finally crossed his ankles and lowered himself down, turning as he sat, his back against her chest, the water enveloping them both. She'd dissolved bath salt in the tub. Not scented, just enough to make the water feel silky as she massaged his chest, his neck and even his scalp. She'd covered the overflow drain with a suction cup shield, so the water went very nearly to the top of the tub, threatening to slosh out and drench the floor.

"Eureka," she repeated.

"I'd always thought of displacement as a negative thing." He shifted a little, rearranging his legs, letting them relax. He hadn't warmed up much before dancing, and he was starting to feel it now.

She said, "Just don't move too fast, ok? I don't want to ruin my downstairs neighbor's ceiling again."

"Again?"

She chuckled. "$5200 in repairs and paint."

"Oops. Worth it?"

"Not that time, it wasn't."

He lay back with his head between her breasts, sighed in unmistakable deep joy, and she massaged his shoulders, paying special attention to the muscles just under his clavicles, where his pecs attached to bone (You should try it. It feels amazing.) He groaned. "I didn't even know that was tight."

"Too much keyboarding. Just let your arms float. Relax."

"Or possibly not enough tango," he mused.

She kept massaging his chest, shoulders, and upper arms, and he just soaked it in, letting himself absorb all the physical pleasure he was likely to get from her. Ever. In his entire life.

She said quietly, "I know we danced before, but...That really _was_ kind of a revelation, Castle. I never would have thought... I mean..." She stopped before her words betrayed her.

"Like you said. Last time, we actually were working. Tonight, for awhile, we were really _dancing_. Especially the Mocoloco Koala." Although he was beginning to trust that she wouldn't turn on him and throw him out of her apartment at any moment (possibly naked and soaking wet), he wasn't taking any of this for granted. But he still couldn't resist the urge to tease her just a little.

She chuckled. "You showed such potential. But I think you need the elf shoes."

He added, "Tonight, with Selma? I was working. That's all. And you stepped in and made it look easy. You picked it up so fast that you made us all look good. So, thank you."

She made little circles and strokes on his face with her fingertips, caressing gently around his eyes. "This doesn't feel like work now," she said. She traced a delicate vertical line from his hairline to lips. His hand stopped hers then, and taking her fingers he kissed each one, then her palm, the inside of her wrist.

"No," he said. "this feels more like..." he wanted to say _love_. No. Too soon... wasn't it? He said, "More like play." He took her index finger between his lips and sucked its tip, very delicately, and he felt her breath hitch.

Her legs already spread wide around his hips, now her crotch pressed tightly across his lower back. He settled slightly lower in the water, letting his weight bear down just a little where she wanted it, and murmured, "Your tub is almost as cool as mine."

"It's from a remodeled Beaux Arts mansion. The owner was a notorious playboy."

"If tubs could talk," Castle smirked. "Did it come with the apartment?"

"I got it from a salvage yard and had it powder-coated," she said. "It's heavy, especially when it's full. So after I ruined my downstairs neighbor's ceiling, I had the floor reinforced. You could set off a bomb in this apartment and this tub wouldn't budge."

"Good to know." The weight of his body against hers nurtured a slowly blooming heat, and she opened her legs wider, nudging subtly against the curve of his lower back. With her knees around his ribs from the back, her feet slid up the insides of his thighs. She could feel him trying not to hold his breath as her fingers brushed his nipples, circled, then pinched.

He croaked, "Okay, this is different."

"How so?"

"Normally I'm the one doing the spooning."

"You like it?"

He purred. "Mmhmm. It's very... knife."

She snickered. "Remember, there will be no forking tonight. But I can still think of a few ways I might bowl you over."

He jumped a little in surprise. She was doing something absolutely obscene with her feet, and it felt... wow. He groaned. "Beckett, you... oh, you gotta stop."

She giggled. "I guess it's just not the right tine yet."

He grabbed her ankles and pulled them away from his … lap. Use your imagination. "You're gonna kill me." _"Oh, my god, those feet!"_ he thought.

"I thought you liked puns!"

"Oh, I do. But if you keep doing that with your feet, I won't have a leg to stand on."

"Like you need three."

He rolled a little, onto his side, immensely careful not to splash. Nor to upset the apple cart in any way. He slipped a hand underneath her back, bracing against the tub floor to support his own weight. He sat up a bit, and the water receded, half-exposing her tits. Round, small, soft, firm, real. Best of all... _hers_. The peak of his hipbone placed pressure on her sex, and she writhed, closed her eyes, head arched back. He cupped one breast in his hand and sucked on the other nipple. She groaned, enjoying his ministrations, then stopped him, pulling him in for kisses so scorching he was surprised all the water hadn't boiled away out of the tub.

"So," he said. "Have you been tested?"

She shook her head. "Not in a while. You?"

"October. I keep it really safe, though."

"All the same," she said. "Let's stick with the deal we originally made." She didn't seem worried he'd push it further than she wanted, nor did she seem open to re-negotiation. She was just reminding him.

This was reasonable considering he was a couple of inches away from a place he'd almost given up hope on ever getting to. The urge was so bad he found his brain occasionally ending sentences with prepositions.

Was she teasing him? Sure. Did he like it? Oh, _hell_ yeah.

He slipped down a little, still on his side, with his head on her chest, his eyes crinkling in amusement as he played almost absently with her right nipple, holding it down and watching it pop up like a little pink jack-in the box. "Pop... pop... can't keep a good nipple down... pop!"

"Cassstllllle..." she gritted. She clamped her hand over his, and he just lay there, listening to her heartbeat, her soft breathing under his ear. He was warm and she was soft and they were both in a bathtub that felt like an ocean, and it was heavenly.

"Sorry," he said. "I shouldn't tease you."

She chuckled underneath him. "Who are you and what have you done with Richard Castle?"

"Who?"

"You know. Tall guy. Swelled head. Never shuts up."

"Oh. Him. Locked him in the janitor's closet at the theater. Used a bunch of gaff tape," said Rick. He lay quiet again a while, watching steam waft up off the water. "What would you have done tonight, if we hadn't gone to the fundraiser?"

She tilted her head. "Had a glass of wine. Taken a bath. Read a little."

"What would you read?"

"Oh, depends. Sometimes a novel. Sometimes erotica. Political analysis puts me right out, if I really need to get some sleep."

"And tonight?"

"After that dance routine? Page 105."

He nodded. "I see," and slipped his hand out from under hers, to stray down along her ribs, hip and flank. She shifted against him again, and he felt her buck suddenly as his weight hit a particularly pleasurable bundle of nerves.

Her voice was velvety. "And you? What would you have done? If you hadn't come back here with me?"

"Oh, maybe I'd have gone out for a drink with Selma and her friends. Let her make fun of our escapades in my callow youth. Kissed her goodnight, on the cheek. Gone home."

"What, no dance refresher course for old time's sake?"

"I already know how to dance, do you agree?"

She nodded, grinning, and kissed the top of his head. "That's beyond debate now."

"Plus, I have a meeting in the morning. So," he shrugged, "home."

"And then?"

He shrugged. "Maybe a small glass of wine. No, a finger of single-malt. A video game."

She grinned. "And then?"

"Oh. I would have gotten ready for bed. Lain down. Thought about the way that pearl necklace lay on your throat and threatened to slide into your cleavage. Thought about the way you leaned forward and stared at the dancers while I stared at you. Thought about reaching over to take your hand. Thought about dancing with you..." here he nudged against the inside of her thigh – not too closely, mind you - "...alone in that ballroom, nobody there but you and me... and a blindfolded accordion player of consenting age with his back to us."

"What, the tango?" she breathed.

He smiled up at her and squeezed the ticklish muscle just above her kneecap, and her leg jerked. "No, silly walk. I love the way you fall over."

She giggled, thinking, _"I love, I love, I love the way you make me laugh."_ Then she grew serious. _"But I don't love you,"_ she thought. _"Do I?"_ Then she hid behind a quip. "I fall over, you get up."

"Perpetual motion." His eyes burned into her.

"Science says it's a myth."

"What do you think?"

"Without an inexhaustible source of energy, sooner or later entropy will take its toll."

"I have a lot of energy," Castle smirked. "That seems to be one of my most annoying features, but maybe you should put it to good use."

This is the time when some people say shut-up-and-kiss-me. They stop talking. They're afraid to say what needs to be said. Castle and Beckett were no exceptions. Except that Rick was incapable of shutting up when he was nervous, and despite the warmth, the massage, the soft golden candlelight, he was growing nervous again. He was beginning to be absolutely almost hopeful that he was maybe going to really fall in love with Kate, and he practically had the virtual hint of a suspicion that if he didn't (literally) fuck it up, she might actually admit to the same inclination. Their eyes burned into one another for a long moment, then she said, "Let's get out of the tub before we have to remodel my downstairs neighbor's entire apartment."

He nodded and backed away to stand. Kate, with her gorgeous, ridiculously prehensile toes, pulled the suction-cup-thingy off the overflow shield, then flipped the drain mechanism, and a vortex of pheromone-infused salt water rushed away to the sea and oblivion.

Castle said, "You know, up till now, I never knew I had a foot fetish."

She grinned at him as he helped her up. "I could write a book with the things you don't know about yourself... let's rinse off, OK? We're all salty, and I want to see what you look like without a quart of mousse in your hair." She ran the water again, and he pulled the shower curtain around. She shifted the spigot up to the shower, and hot water cascaded down.

He said, "You'd love my shower. It has two heads." He waggled his eyebrows.

"Not gonna happen, Castle," she said tartly. "Remember? This is a one time thing. Just for fun."

He turned his back to hide his expression and agreed through the water jetting on his face. "Because it's your birthday."

"Because it's my birthday and you got me unreasonably hot with your tango-dancing ways." She poured shampoo into her hand and, instead of washing her own hair, motioned for him to stoop. He did so, and she set about it, quite businesslike, while he stared happily down at her chest. Her sweet little tits bobbled and shook as she reached up to massage the lather into his hair. He rested his hands on her hips. His erection waited around a while, hoping something would happen to its direct benefit, but nothing did. So it hung its little head dejectedly and took a brief respite from its eternal heat-seeking-missile objective.

Rick put his frustration aside. "You ever write, Beckett?"

"Just fan fiction," she said.

 _"Really?"_ He might have squeaked a little.

She rolled her eyes. "No. _Kidding._ Waste of time. Who reads that?"

"You'd be surprised," he grinned. "Amazing what you can learn from people who think nobody's gonna read their stuff." He read the guilty look on her face. _"Kate Beckett, you are so busted,"_ he thought. He wondered what kind of fiction she liked, and said, "Tell me you don't write about sparkly vampires."

"Sure don't, Buster." She handed him the shampoo bottle, and he washed her hair, feeling the hard shell of hairspray soften and collapse, the wet strands slightly elastic between his fingers. He returned the scalp massage she'd given him earlier, and her pleasurable moan drew him in for a kiss, a rushing, pent-up, panting, swirling, obsessive tangle of tongues and lips. _Proportionally Appropriate Castle_ made an eager reappearance, nudging against Kate's belly. Her legs were very nearly as long as Rick's. He was swamped with a surge of lust as she rose a little on her toes and leaned in to him, then, oh, praise the Lord and pass the jello. She let his member slip between her thighs, but not too close, the delicious wet pressure drawing a growl out of him. Slow glides: One, two, three. It was glorious, and dangerous for any number of reasons. He wondered whether she was more inclined to cross the line she'd set than he was. It was growing fainter by the moment.

He pushed her away gently. "I – Let's get out." He could barely speak. She nodded silently, turned off the water, he opened the shower curtain and they each took clean, soft white towels. She grabbed an extra and wrapped her hair in a makeshift turban. Rather than looking silly, it accentuated her bone structure. She looked like an exotic princess.

"Tea's probably steeped," he grinned. He wrapped his towel around his hips and went to the kitchen. "Steeped and cold," he announced. He tossed the tea bags and warmed both mugs for thirty seconds in the microwave.

He turned to find her sitting on the couch, towel-drying her hair, her torso still wrapped in a towel. She'd taken the candle from the bathroom counter and set it on the low table before her. The golden light danced on her oddly somber face.

He stopped, a little dismayed. "You look like you want me to leave," he said.

"No. Not yet. I just... Not the bedroom. It's a mess." (This was because she had tried on nearly every dress she owned, hated them all, and left them all over her bed, her floor, her chair, and her dresser).

He decided not to press it. "Okay." Set the mugs down. "Is this the coffee table, or the tea table?"

She picked up her mug and sipped. "Moot point now."

"Moot. Mooooot. Your vocabulary rolls off your tongue like a kiss."

"That sounds more like you tipped a cow and sent it rolling down a hill." She set her tea down again.

"Cow-tipping is a myth. But I did get a cow up onto the roof of my high school once."

"That's all well and good, but how did you get it down?" She slid over to straddle his lap, and her towel unraveled and fell to the floor. He definitely noticed.

"I have done the impossible, and that makes me mighty." He winked at her. "Okay, actually my friend Matt handled that part."

"What did he do?"

"Well, first, he stole a helicopter..."

"Tell me later." She shoved him over on the sofa, onto his back, kissing him frantically. His towel slipped away, her hands all over him, and for all he knew, she was going to fuck him senseless right then and there. "Castle," she said, "Really. What would you have done when you got home? Be honest." All the while, she rode his thigh slowly, her slickness gliding on the nearly-hairless skin there, her breasts brushing against his chest, ribs, belly, as she moved down and down. Her warm, chamomile-scented breath ghosted across his groin.

He spoke through gritted teeth. "I would have thought of you. Kissing you. Feeling your breasts. Feeling you twitching and clenching under my tongue. Feel you sliding your lips, licking me..." he had to close his eyes, though he didn't want to. "I would, oh, God, Kate. I – you'd lower yourself down onto me, wrap yourself around me, I'd push, I'd push into you, so hard, so _fucking_ hard..."

She stared at him, overwhelmed by this confession, so similar to what went through her own mind far too often. His eyes half-opened again, intent on her every motion and curve, and dear God, the man was _everything_ : his lips reddened and swollen, his voice caressing her mind, the ultimate aphrodesiac. Her body was screaming to take him, let him do whatever he wanted, to feel him explode inside her.

She could tell he was close to losing any semblance of reserve. "For a man with so little self-discipline, you have a lot of self-discipline."

For some reason, dammit, that stopped him cold. He sighed. The devil and angel in his head were tangled up like pretzels somewhere between 69 and a fist fight.

"Yeah," he said, and she felt some alarm at the regret in his voice. "I should go."

She said nothing, just sat back, staring at him, bewilderment and anger and disappointment warring in her face. Her legs felt weak. _She_ felt weak. Weak and stupid. She sat back, freeing his body so he could get out from underneath her. He stood up and tucked the towel around his waist, and looked down, towering over her.

"People keep telling me to just get you out of my system. Anyone say that to you lately, Beckett?"

She nodded, frowning a little. "All the time."

"Well, I don't want to."

"What - what do you mean?" Her voice was low, scratchy. He handed her teacup to her, and from force of habit, she accepted the cup and took a sip around the lump in her throat.

"Get you out of my system." He looked down at his own chest, placing his fingertips over his heart, then pulled his hands outward, raying the fingers as if drawing an exploding sun on his skin. He took a deep breath. "I don't think I could if I wanted to. Even if it was only a fantasy."

"Do you... want to?"

Now he was confused. "Get you out of my system or fuck you senseless?"

"Well, the 'fuck me senseless' part has been obvious from Day One, Writerboy." She was trying to put that shell on, but it kept falling off, her face soft and vulnerable, tears starting up. "I guess Selma..."

"Oh, Kate." He surged forward, pulling her to a stand, and she dropped the mug on the carpet where it landed with a hard, wet thud. They both ignored it as his arms wrapped around her.

She struggled and pushed back angrily. "You can't have it both ways with me, Castle."

"I _know_. Beckett, you can be so obtuse sometimes."

"Well, I'm sorry if I'm not willing to grant credence to your every word."

He grasped her upper arms. "Kate. Selma used me to make herself look good. She would have been more than happy to wind up on Page 6 with me tomorrow morning because she's over fifty. It's not fair and it's not right, but her career as a lead dancer is starting to falter no matter how lovely and talented she might still be. She needs the publicity, and back when we were involved, she needed it then as well. But I used Selma, too, and thought I was getting the better part of the deal. She taught me a lot, including how to have actual fun with women who would otherwise have terrified me. So you owe her a little gratitude there, Kate."

"Why?"

"Because when we met, you were something of a bitch. If I hadn't known to really _see_ you, not just _look_ at you – I would have run screaming."

"Then why are you leaving now?"

He shut his eyes hard, then they hopened, (I mean opened), and his voice was husky. "Because that's what you want. You want to make me _wait_." He sounded almost angry, of course he did, he was frustrated as hell. And she wanted him so terribly. But she had to know, know for certain, that they could both walk away.

He kept talking, his voice a low growl. "You want to pretend that this will mean nothing in the morning. You'd make me crawl, just to see me on my knees. And," he chuckled bitterly, "God help me, I would. But then we'd never be equals, never have a balance of power. I'd always be chasing after your lead, and you'd never, ever really trust me. Much as your deer-in-a-headlights look is adorable right now, there is more to life than _pursuit_ , Kate."

The ghost of a smile lit her face, and he brushed a barely-damp lock of hair from her forehead, as sad as if he were already having to say goodbye. He murmured, "So beautiful."

"So." Her voice shook. "No more pursuing?"

He shook his head, and put a hand gently on her cheek. "I'm right here, Kate. Dancing beside you. But right now, I'm trying to keep a pace we can both maintain without tangoing off a cliff."

She bit her lower lip gently and let her smile bloom a little wider. "All right, then."

He headed back to her bathroom to collect his clothes.

She rose and blew out the candle, then stepped away. "I'll call a cab."

"That's okay, I've got the car service on speed dial." In the bathroom, he dropped his used towel into the laundry hamper, ran a hand through his insanely mussed hair, and dressed.

When he emerged, she was wearing leggings, an over-sized gray sweatshirt, and a pair of fluffy turquoise mukluks. She looked young, shy, tired. Bittersweet. And there was something in her stance that told him she didn't want a kiss goodnight. Whether that was because she wanted more and was afraid to indulge herself, or that she simply wanted to be alone, he couldn't tell. She reached into the closet and handed him his outerwear, and he put them on, pulling out his phone to call the car service.

"Thanks," he waved gently at her. "Sweet dreams. We'll talk soon."

We've all heard that before. The death knell of many a failed relationship. She didn't know whether he meant it or not. He let himself out and waited a moment by the door, hoping she'd come after him, maybe ask him if he'd be coming back to the precinct after this. But he heard the lock turn, and the loud click of her old light switch. The wiring in her building worried him. He pulled up the car service speed dial, and only had to wait a few minutes in the cold lobby before it arrived to take him back to the loft.

* * *

The next morning – her 32nd birthday – she came in early. Esposito and Ryan took a look at her face when they arrived at 9, wished her good morning, and went meekly to their desks. After the Beckett's Birthday Balloon Animal Debacle of 2008, they knew better than to kick that hornet's nest. Montgomery arrived at 9:30, complaining about shoveling snow, came by her desk, wished her a quiet "Happy birthday, Detective, here are some nice cold cases for you to play with," and slunk off to his office before she could so much as roll her eyes. She obviously hadn't slept much, and no amount of eyeliner could hide the fact that she'd been crying.

She was sitting at her desk, contemplating a sad, unresolved story of a life cut short, and, perversely, hoping someone new would die to distract from her sense of failure.

Really, there was no point glancing at the clock. He wouldn't be in. Not after last night. She'd barely slept, and awoken to a pounding dread that now he'd touched her, kissed her, felt her, seen her, and gone off to do his Walk of Shame in a goddamned blizzard, that was it. He had stopped wanting her, just like that, because in absolute truth, he'd finally realized she was a cold and selfish bitch. Too complicated. Didn't know how to balance power in a relationship. A turning point had come and gone: that she'd withheld affection from him, not because she didn't like him, but because she did. Maybe, now that he knew, it was enough to quell his pursuit and kill his curiosity. She was, after all, just a cop. Nobody to set on a pedestal.

She was reading the coroner's report from 1989 when she heard the soft thud of a mug being set on her desk. He was there. She jolted, just a little, at the realization, familiar yet suddenly brand new.

He was there. Really there.

"You're here." She kept it light. Nobody needed to know how she felt. Especially not him. She told herself she had a good poker face, and was hiding it well. But anyone could see it: She was incandescent with relief, radiantly happy to see him. The edge of paper she was holding actually sparked slightly at her touch and came unreasonably close to combustion despite all that being a scientific impossibility. But she didn't notice, and Castle was distracted by her face.

She said, "You told Selma you had a meeting this morning." She fully expected her armor to appear seamless. Nothing was gonna get through it this time.

He nodded. "And here I am." His face was smooth, carefully composed, with nothing betraying the passion they'd shared the night before.

She glanced past his back to see Ryan and Esposito prairie-dogging over at their desks. They caught her glance and ducked back down to pretend they were working. She said, "I'd expected you to take a snow day, Castle."

"Nowhere else I'd rather be."

She blinked once. Perhaps she did resemble a deer, just a little bit, standing on an iceberg, about to be demolished by the Titanic. She said, "It's all paperwork today. Cold cases. You're free to go."

She wondered how many times he'd hidden feelings from her... hidden trysts with others behind that cypher of an expression or... perish the thought... perhaps invented sexual conquests that were in reality nothing more than a kiss goodnight. She'd always thought she could tell when a man had gotten laid. She'd dismissed him, over and over again, as an impulsive, spoiled man-child. Now she wondered whether she knew him at all. Then she realized he was holding something behind his back, and he swung it out into her view.

"Oh! Breakfast and a newspaper!" he said, as if he'd forgotten, and then added in a stage whisper, "Because it's your birthday."

She took the bag and peered in. A scrambled Egg Benedict sandwich and fruit salad from Remy's. She hadn't eaten breakfast, and a small monster growled happily in her belly. "That smells amazing," she breathed. She gestured, and in response he took a seat in his dilapidated chair.

He fished in his breast pocket. "The New York Times did a writeup on the benefit – not on the odious Page Six, either." He handed her a full-page photo essay that had been clipped out of the philanthropy section. The paper was still warm from being nestled close to his chest. Her hand shook, very slightly, when she unfolded the article.

 **DANCE FOLKLYRIC** **A** **STILL GOING STRONG**  
 _Record $120,000 raised in one night_

There was a picture of Selma and her young partner dancing on stage, a nostalgic glamour head-shot of Dame Cecelia from the sixties, and a wide shot of a hundred euphoric kids taking their bows. And there was a sharp-focus profile photo of Kate herself, watching the on-stage tango performance, seated with legs crossed, leaning forward, wondering and breathless. Beyond her, a generically-movie-star-handsome man's face loomed, blurred in half- shadow. His expression was wistful, completely absorbed not in the show, but in her. Below this was the caption: _"The romance of tango reflected in the rapt_ _gaze_ _of an audience member."_

Kate blushed.

"Before the show, I asked PR to keep your name out of it." Castle said quietly.

"Thanks."

"I trust you're having a reasonably nice birthday?" He took a sip of his own coffee, watching her face carefully.

Kate unwrapped her breakfast sandwich. "Best birthday in a long time. So far." She took a small bite of her sandwich, chewed and swallowed. "This is the second-most incredible thing I've ever tasted." She wasn't looking at him directly, but there was a shameless little smoldering flash in her eyes.

He swallowed. "You slept well?"

She nodded, shifting slightly in her chair. "Yeah. You?"

"Like a rock." He moved his chair around to sit beside her for the first time at her desk, and she made no move to argue the point, just took another bite of her sandwich and hummed happily. He leaned just slightly toward her and her open file, and tilted his head, looking at the autopsy report. "So, Detective Beckett. Who died?"


End file.
